


Perhaps

by Marquise



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Corruption, F/M, Kink Meme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-31
Updated: 2012-05-31
Packaged: 2017-11-06 09:04:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/417126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marquise/pseuds/Marquise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The masks come off.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Perhaps

She runs her hand down his chest, along the path of the scar, marveling at how much the wine seems to have heated his skin. Perhaps she is just too used to the comfort of ice in her fingers, the constant chill of the Eyrie, but the warmth seems to radiate from him.

It’s not unpleasant, that she has to admit. As she reaches her mark she allows herself to savor his sharp intake of breath, the way he arches into her hand. She’s seen it countless times before, but she feels that she will never tire of that slight gesture of submission.

She slides her fingers down the length of him, and when his eyes flutter closed makes her move. “You’re quite found of her.”

Petyr looks at her, glazed, and takes a second to find his words. Barbrey smiles in the silence.

“I am,” he finally says, raising himself up on his elbows. “She is my joy,” he continues in a practiced, even tone, trying to get a feel for her meaning.

She tries to keep the bitter taste in her mouth out of her smile. She squeezes her hand and, as he lets out a long hiss, leans in to let her lips brush his ear. “But she’s not yours is she?”

Petyr, for his part, doesn’t deny it. He sets his lips and regards her with all the steel he can muster in his current state.

“I don’t care who she is,” Barbrey says, and it’s true. The girl is nothing to her, frankly, but she knows more than to admit as much to him, even when he’s under her hands. He doesn’t look at Alayne with fatherly affection, but she can tell that every bit of his feelings are genuine and irrational; not something she would wish to prod. “But don’t pretend with me.”

He laughs at her statement and she has to smile herself, just a bit, at the absurdity of her lines.

“I’m very invested in her,” Petyr answers, eyes hard. She’s taken aback, slightly, by the loss of that comforting glaze.

“I know. And I don’t care,” she repeats. She squeezes her hand again and he curses under his breath. “She’s somewhat skilled, I must grant you. But she could be better. With more instruction” She lets her words sink in, resuming her work, savoring his gasps.

“She is a rosebud,” she mutters, and if his strangled groan can be taken for an answer he more than understands her meaning.

“Perhaps I need help?” he mutters, and his gaze tells her all she needs to know about that. He grips her hip with one hand and pulls her down to him.

——

When the wine fades she still remembers the strange conversation, and the next night she finds herself alone, again, with the two of them.

Alayne is all carefully constructed smiles and false statements, and while she hates her for that there is a part of Barbrey that can’t help but find the girl intriguing, especially now.

Not in the same way Petyr does, of course. But watching them whisper together, she can’t help but meet the girl’s calm eyes every once and a while. _What are you?_

On this night Petyr leans in and brushes a strand of hair from Alayne’s cheek before muttering something in her ear. The girl blushes, the expression sudden and rather surprising to see on her pale face; nevertheless, she grips his arm. _She’s not his, and yet she is._

“Perhaps,” Alayne says in response to something Barbrey cannot hear, laughing softly, looking at the older woman shyly. The blush only seems to increase her loveliness. Petyr looks at her with all the pride in the world, and pulls her in for a long kiss.

Barbrey grips her wine glass tighter but can’t keep her eyes off them. He’s never been so blatant in his affections for the girl, at least in front of her. Something about them—the openness, the weakness, the closeness—sickens her.

She doesn’t let him see it. She stares at them and sips at her wine and thinks about how little she cares for any of this.


End file.
